


not much to ask from somebody

by Friendly_Gayberhood_SpiderMan (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Friendly_Gayberhood_SpiderMan
Summary: “You are unwell,” Marius says, for lack of anything better.“Astute observational skills as always, Monsieur Pontmercy.” Courfeyrac grins. A coughing fit overtakes it barely a second later.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	not much to ask from somebody

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "You Matter to Me" from Waitress

Marius enters Courfeyrac’s apartment with a frown. Behind him, the landlord mutters something under his breath and turns around, heavy footsteps echoing off the walls as he walks away. He’d let Marius in with no questions, recognizing him either from his brief occupation of the adjacent room so many months ago or from his numerous visits with Courfeyrac after moving out. Marius waits until the landlord is completely out of sight before closing the door and taking a step forward, casting his eyes about the room.

A sort of moroseness--a word Marius has never thought of in relation to Courfeyrac before now--seems to permeate the entire space. The curtains are drawn tight across the windows, letting in only the faintest trickle of sunlight, and a thin layer of dust covers the table and bookshelves. The sole sign of life in the room is a large lump on the bed, swaddled in blankets and vaguely shaped like a person.

A cough from the lump on the bed; Marius rushes over. He carefully draws back one of the blankets, revealing Courfeyrac’s hair--curls loose and rather limp--and his forehead, shiny with sweat. Marius swallows a surprised sound and jostles one of Courfeyrac's shoulders through the mass of blankets, effectively rousing him.

Courfeyrac groans and sits up, pushing his blankets down further. He blinks open unfocused, slightly clouded eyes, looking somewhere over Marius’ left shoulder.

“What--” he clears his throat-- “What are you doing here?”

Marius, without moving more than a step or two away from Courfeyrac’s bedside, locates a chair and drags it over, taking a seat. He reaches out to Courfeyrac but stops himself before he can make contact, one hand awkwardly suspended in the space between them. “We had plans,” he says. They had arranged to attend a ball together; a plan Marius had only consented to since his savings had, for once, been able to cover the cost of a carriage--not that he’d actually needed to hire one, seeing as Courfeyrac hadn’t been at his apartment at the agreed-upon time. “I was concerned when you didn’t show up.”

Something in Courfeyrac’s expression clears and he makes eye contact with Marius at last, clarity pushing out the fog that had previously hung over his eyes. He grabs Marius’ still dangling hand with one of his own, squeezing once before letting go. “Was that today?” he asks, a slight rasp to his voice. “I apologize. The event seems to have slipped my mind completely.”

“You are unwell,” Marius says, for lack of anything better.

“Astute observational skills as always, Monsieur Pontmercy.” Courfeyrac grins. A coughing fit overtakes it barely a second later.

Marius reaches for the pitcher and glass conveniently located on the nightstand, pouring the water as quickly as he can without spilling any. He waits until Courfeyrac’s fit has passed to hold the glass to his lips, bypassing an extended hand.

Courfeyrac gives Marius a strange look and he feels heat rise to his cheeks--enough that a blush would be visible if his complexion wasn’t as dark as it is--but he holds firm, waiting as Courfeyrac opens his mouth. 

He slowly tilts the glass back, keeping a careful watch of Courfeyrac’s face--looking for any shifts of expression that might signify discomfort or pain. When the water is mostly gone, Marius moves his hand back, letting his fingers brush against Courfeyrac’s still parted lips, his cheek, the line of his jaw, before fully withdrawing. If he were anywhere else, Marius would have been scandalized by such a bold display of affection--even from himself, especially from himself--but every second spent in Courfeyrac’s presence makes it easier to cast his worries aside; to let himself forget the rules of propriety that had governed his life for so many years.

The glass makes a soft _clink_ as Marius places it back on the nightstand. He stares at it for a second, mind somewhere that is not quite the present, before turning his attention back to Courfeyrac. “Did you call on a doctor?” he asks; it’s not quite what he was intending to say, but he is still curious as to the answer.

“Joly visited this morning,” Courfeyrac says, “If he is to be believed, then Lesgle had this same ailment only a week ago. Which of course means that he himself will start displaying symptoms come the passage of another week.”

“Then it is not serious?” Marius can’t quite keep the worry from leaking into his voice.

“Not at all.” Courfeyrac gives Marius one of those looks as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking--and knows it even better than Marius himself. “I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary; I would never die from something so boring as a common illness.”

The mention of death makes Marius uneasy for a reason he can’t quite name, and he casts around for a diversion from it. His eyes catch on a pack of cards, stationed on one of the bookshelves between a book on law and what looks to be a romance novel. He stands up to retrieve it, feeling Courfeyrac’s eyes on him the entire time.

“Fancy a game?” Courfeyrac asks when Marius has regained his seat. There is a certain quality to his voice; something Marius can’t quite place--and is not sure if he desires to.

“Whist?” Marius suggests, sliding the cards out of the packaging. He starts to shuffle the deck, dropping no fewer than five cards in the process.

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “We don’t have enough players for it,” he says as Marius bends to pick up the cards scattered on the floor. By one chair leg a printed king stares up at him, dark outline almost menacing in the dim light of the room.

“Écarté, then,” Marius says, placing the king somewhere in the middle of the deck and resuming his shuffling.

“Do you remember the rules?” Courfeyrac says, tilting his head to a side. The motion further dishevels his already untended hair and Marius feels a sudden urge to run his hands through it; to smooth out the knots and tangles with his fingers and lay each strand of hair back in its proper place. It is only the fact that his hands are currently occupied with the deck of cards which prevents him from putting this thought into action.

“I-- yes,” Marius says, replaying in his mind the last words Courfeyrac had said. “I believe I recall them well enough.” He doesn’t really--the rules of Écarté have long been banished from his mind in favor of more pressing considerations: conjugations and court procedures and the like--but there is no need to let Courfeyrac know that.

Courfeyrac’s answering smile informs Marius that he’s seen through the lie. He nods anyway, reaching out to grab the deck. Directing a teasing look at Marius, he fans it out, deftly picking out and discarding cards. Right; Écarté isn’t played with a full deck. Marius feels heat rise to his face once more as Courfeyrac gives him a conspiratorial wink.

With remarkably steady hands, Courfeyrac deals the cards, making a show of averting his eyes from Marius’ hand. He shifts back slightly, making room between them at the edge of the bed and finishes setting up the game.

“What shall the stakes be?” he asks, once the trump suit has been established.

“I have--” Marius reaches into one pocket, withdrawing the coins he finds there. He counts them quickly in his head, frowning at the small amount-- “Four sous.” He reaches into his other pocket, hoping to add to the amount, but comes up empty. The rest of his money must still be at his apartment, left behind in his rush to find Courfeyrac.

“Why don’t we wager something other than money?” Courfeyrac suggests, and then, before Marius can respond, “A favor.”

“A favor?” Marius repeats, cautious. Courfeyrac has a certain glint in his eye that Marius recognizes all too well--the last time he saw it, he had ended up in a bed that was not his own, covered head to toe in chicken feathers, Courfeyrac beside him in a similar state.

“Yes.” Courfeyrac grins. “The winner of the game is allowed a favor from the loser. They may ask for whatever they want. Within reason,” he adds, presumably in response to whatever expression has manifested on Marius’ face, “And the other person must comply.”

Marius has a few doubts--he can still vividly remember the feeling of feathers tickling his nostrils--but he pushes them away. Courfeyrac has never--purposefully--led him astray, and Marius trusts him more than he does any other living person. “Deal.”

With that, the game begins. It goes slow at first--Marius unable to remember the basic rules of Écarté and Courfeyrac too amused to intervene--but the pace eventually picks up. They fall into a steady rhythm of proposing, exchanging, and discarding. Marius has a slight lead for the first three plays but loses it by the fourth. Points are kept track of on a sheet of paper that had been liberated from a stack of law notes for this purpose.

Courfeyrac wins, of course, and before Marius can propose a rematch, he has gathered up the cards and placed them on the nightstand. “I fear--” a yawn-- “I fear Morpheus is beckoning me; I will not be able to resist his pull for much longer.”

Marius nods. “I will be taking my leave of you then.” He makes to stand, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

“You will not be rid of me so easily,” Courfeyrac says, “There is still the matter of my favor to attend to.”

“What would you have me do?” Marius asks, settling back down in his chair--he hopes that whatever Courfeyrac requests doesn’t involve any more flightless birds.

“Stay until I have fallen asleep.” Courfeyrac’s voice is quieter than before; not much, but enough as to be noticeable. He shifts over in the bed, making a space large enough for another person to join him--an unspoken invitation.

Marius takes it. He clambers onto the bed--not half so gracefully as he would have liked, but at least Courfeyrac has the courtesy to muffle his laughter--and maneuvers himself into a sitting position, using a pillow to prop himself up.

“I would do it anyway,” Marius says, once he has more or less settled. At the flash of confusion that crosses Courfeyrac’s face, he clarifies, “Stay. Favor or no favor. I would stay if you asked.” The words feel like a confession; perhaps they are. 

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. His ensuing smile is its own confession; Marius feels something in his chest flutter.

A conversation is started--by whom, Marius isn’t sure. They speak of everything and nothing. Politics, school, mutual friends and acquaintances. In the middle of his commentary on some new play, Courfeyrac lays his head on Marius’ lap, eyes slipping closed even as he still talks. Marius leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, reveling in Courfeyrac’s sharp intake of breath.

Eventually, they trail off into a comfortable silence, all potential topics exhausted. A few minutes pass before Courfeyrac speaks again, voice heavy. “Marius?”

Marius hums, lightly running one hand through Courfeyrac’s hair. “I’m here.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?” The words are quiet, more air than sound. They barely reach Marius’ ears before dissolving back into the ether. He replies without hesitation.

“Of course,” and then, after a minute, “Always.” No response comes from Courfeyrac, already fast asleep.

_Yes_ , Marius thinks, hours later, as he mentally traces Courfeyrac's sleeping silhouette--blankets pulled up to his chin, hair mussed, arm loosely draped across Marius’ leg, mouth still holding the remnants of a smile. _Always_.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Can I write something not involving these two? Another ship mayhaps? Or just something with different characters?  
> My brain: No ❤️
> 
> Jokes aside, this was fun to write and I hope everyone reading enjoyed it :D
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr @saucy-boy


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